


More than Fine

by PatrickMcKinney



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatrickMcKinney/pseuds/PatrickMcKinney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks, John reads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More than Fine

People were really terribly obvious, thought Sherlock.

Like the woman slouched in the seat across from him. Clearly an office worker: pale with poor posture from long hours at the computer, trying to break a smoking habit as well judging from the state of her teeth and the way she was fiddling with something in her handbag. Not terribly committed if she was still buying cigarettes, pressured by friends most likely, or a boyfriend. Dull.

He shifted uncomfortably on the plastic airport seat and looked for a new target.

How about the 12-year-old boy slumped over an ipod several seats over, with his tattered clothing and artfully destroyed shoes and expensive earphones (wealthy parents with a tempestuous relationship with their son). Oh, traces of nail polish… and yes a tiny bit of eyeliner. Judging by his stiff-backed father (minor politician most likely, judging by his cuffs) next to him, that would be the cause. How droll.

He rolled his eyes. Boring. So utterly boring. He glanced over at his companion to demand entertainment of some kind, when he stopped.

His flatmate and partner in not-crime (or more accurately more-often-than-not-vaguely-criminal-activity) was just sitting there really: reading his book (a history on the Afghan Wars), legs crossed, soft brown eyes flicking across the pages.

It was just John, some part of his brain thought rationally. He saw him all the time. He was simple, plain even. Nothing that should cause this sort of reaction. Shortness of breath, a flushed face, a tightness in his chest. Symptoms, he had thought to be mere fantasy on the part of writers of what John called 'chick flicks'.

This ordinary man had the extraordinary ability to captivate him, for no other reason that that he was himself. John was simply John, a man with complexities and interests far deeper and more intricate than Sherlock ever would have imagined. A man with sense, intelligence, skill and charm, whom everyone liked. The one man who didn't just tolerate Sherlock, but liked him, looked after him, and, stunningly, cared for him. The person he could no longer imagine life without.

John looked up at his friend, raising an eyebrow as Sherlock continued to stare.

"Sherlock? Something the matter?"

Sherlock blinked, then spoke, a smile growing on his face.

"No its… fine. Everything's fine."

John smiled and turned back to his book and Sherlock stretched out, lacing his fingers behind is head, speaking softly under his breath, a smirk on his face.

"Not bored anymore…"

"Hm?"

"Nothing."


End file.
